


Do No Harm

by cocoacremeandgays



Category: South Park
Genre: Aged-Up Characters, Asthma, CPR, Car Accidents, Crappy Hospital Coffee, F/M, Flashbacks, Gen, Heart Attack, Kissing, Loss, M/M, Making Out, Medical Procedures, Mental Illness, Nicknames, Nightmares, Overdose, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Scars, Suicide Attempt, Trauma, hospital au, school shooting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-15
Updated: 2020-03-12
Packaged: 2020-05-12 03:14:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 14,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19220428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cocoacremeandgays/pseuds/cocoacremeandgays
Summary: A teenage boy is brought into the hospital after a drug overdose. With a lack of ID and unwilling to give away any information about himself, the only thing the medical staff know about him is the alias he gives them: John Elway.Another thing they know: he’ll only talk to Doctor Kyle Broflovski.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> disclaimer: i'm not a doctor, so there's probably a lot of wrong and incorrect stuff in here. please don't be too mad. i understand how frustrating it can be for a writer to get stuff wrong. i did my best on research, but i really just wanted to write something new, short, and have fun with it. writing this helped me with a lot.  
> a BIG thank you to my friend L_C_Knight for the cardiopulmonary talk we had while fishing! your information was very helpful in writing this, lol.  
> that being said, i hope you enjoy. :)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A teenage boy is brought into the ER.

There’s a certain numbness that spreads in Stan’s ears. He knows he’s tugging for breath, and he knows of the rumbling that stutters below him, whatever it is that his body lays on. Even then, though, he feels it more than he hears it. He feels the way his chest expands in an attempt at gasping, and he feels the way his hands are grasping at his own shirt, tugging and trying to rip at it. He thinks somewhere in his head, there’s this thought that if he just tears through his sweatshirt, it’ll be like some sort of ascension, like he can finally just get out of here, but he can’t.

Another thing that exists is this nothingness. He knows he’s in pain but he can’t really feel it, and he’s unsure of how exactly that’s supposed to make him feel. He guesses he’s liberated, but at the same time, he can’t help but wonder.

Just when everything seems to fall away, his eyes tear open and he finds himself staring up at this blinding white light. He sees light blue out of the corners of his vision, and it blurs like a strange version of pastel tunnel-vision. He thinks it’s beautiful, and something calm happens. His hands stop ripping at his shirt, and he rests one on his stomach and the other palm-up next to him. He doesn’t know what he’s laying on. He just doesn’t.

The blue disappears, and in its place arrives a brown that melts into tan that melts into yellow. Then there’s the blinding white again, except it comes back in flickers. Two thirds of his vision explode in light and then when that comes back, the final third rushes to experience the same. He shies away from it, turning his head to the side.

Since he’s not staring above himself anymore, the white disappears. He rules out the idea of Heaven when he sees a sideways gray cart and a defibrillator. A blurred outline of a woman hovers next to that cart, and she pushes through one of the drawers on it. She retrieves something, what looks like a tube, but Stan can’t pull his gaze away from the defibrillator. He knows that type of thing must hurt like a bitch (it has to, right?), and he doesn’t want them to use it on him.

In a rush of awareness, Stan pinpoints the word of the woman messing with the cart: nurse.

And as his gaze wanders, as he tries to bolt upright from the thing he lays on (gurney), Stan sees a man (doctor) shoving him back down, and he hears the click of something (pen) and he knows it’s just a pen, but the worst slams into his brain and he cries out, as loud as possible, as hard as his throat will allow, “NO!”

Stan thinks of the needles they’re going to stick him with. He thinks of the medical records they’re going to find, and he thinks of the police officer they’re going to bring in to discuss what happened. He screams again. And again, and again, and again. He knows they can’t keep him here, and he knows that they’ll do it anyway. He knows they don’t care about anything that he has to say because what he’s telling them to do goes against the Hippocratic oath. _Do no harm._

But don’t they see? _They’re harming him._

A new man, one that Stan doesn’t remember being here earlier, suddenly intrudes on the blindingly-white picture of the ER bay that Stan’s being imprisoned in. Stan’s a caged animal, Stan’s a freak show, Stan’s a movie. They’re all watching him, waiting for him to do something that will threaten their safety or give them a story to tell their friends later. _This kid came into the ER today and screamed his head off!_

And Stan tries not to think about it, he tries to count to ten and confront the sheep trotting in his brain, but it’s no use. His mouth is wet and it tastes salty, and he wonders if he’s crying.

“Alright, everyone,” the man Stan doesn’t remember from earlier says. “Hands off.”

“But—” one of the women tries to protest, but the man cuts her off.

“He says stop, so we’re stopping.”

The hands Stan hadn’t realized were all over him suddenly dissipate. He’s alone in this white abyss, staring at a buzzing, flickering light that is built into the peppered ceiling tiles. He thinks he’s still screaming, but he can’t hear himself, so he doesn’t know. Eventually, he finds the courage to close his mouth and swallow the saliva that has built up. He tastes copper, too. He tastes dust. He tastes pills. In minutes, he can hear again. He can see and hear. He can’t breathe, not really, not effectively. But he’s aware he’s in the ER, and he’s aware there’s an audience of doctors and nurses, and he’s aware that the only thing keeping him from treatment is himself.

Stan looks down towards his feet and sees a door. He’s not in the bay, he’s in a room. A trauma room. He shouldn’t be in a trauma room, he wasn’t involved in a trauma.

Then again, he really shouldn’t be here at all.

The man who told everyone to back off enters Stan’s vision once he’s laid back down. The man’s eyes are hazel and his hair is red, and his skin isn’t pale but it’s lighter than Stan’s. Stan stares at him, and he stares back. “We’re not going to hurt you,” the man says, and then nods. Once, simple. The man doesn’t ask _okay?_ after speaking and he doesn’t try to touch Stan. He just stands there, and he and Stan make eye contact. Although he can’t breathe, although he can’t speak, although his head hurts and he thinks he vomited earlier, Stan look at the man’s eyes and finds himself trusting them.

And Stan nods back.

“Can we help you?” the man asks. Stan wants to say no, but then the man gives that little nod again, and Stan sees the man’s face and Stan tries to find the strength his mom always talked about. He chokes back phrases from his dad and nods.

Stan finds the man’s name tag. It’s pinned to his labcoat. Stan’s struggling to read it when one of the women secures an Ambu bag over his nose and mouth and starts to squeeze. Just when Stan feels like he’ll never be able to focus enough energy to read it, he finally catches the name.

The man is Kyle Broflovski.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments / feedback / constructive criticism; all is welcome!


	2. Cranberries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kyle and Kenny talk over lunch in the cafeteria.

And Kyle Broflovski is in trouble.

“That,” Kenny says, dropping his recycled paper bowl of pasta onto the cafeteria table. Some noodles hop and tumble out of the bowl and onto the surface of it, leaving tiny peppering smears of tomato sauce in their wake. Kyle rolls his eyes and prods at his chicken salad, preparing for a scolding. Kenny sits rather crudely down at the table, pointing at Kyle with the black plastic fork. “That was completely against protocol, my good sir.”

Kenny smells like pure oxygen and animals and terrible attempts at sweet scents. Kyle scrunches his nose, wafted by the mix of stench. Picking the dried cranberries out of his meal, Kyle says, “You smell like fruit and puppies, it’s unbecoming.”

“Oh, sorry my puppy therapy schedule interferes with your weak stomach,” Kenny says sarcastically. He scoops up forkfuls of pasta and begins eating rather quickly. Through a full mouth, he says, “What the hell were you thinking, by the way?”

“What do you mean?” Kyle asks.

“You told them to stop treating him?” Kenny asks, his voice hushing to a rather quiet tone. He makes another grand gesture with his plastic fork, scooting closer in his seat. “I mean, that kid can’t be older than sixteen, and you just told the staff to go hands-off? Are you insane?”

“Where did you hear about that?” Kyle spears a piece of chicken with the prongs of his fork and examines the quality of the food. There’s black specks; pepper, of course. Kyle isn’t much of a fan of pepper, but what can he do? This stuff comes pre-made in the cafeteria and he really doesn’t have the time to pack himself a lunch in the morning. Well… he does, but that doesn’t mean he wants to. He eats the piece of chicken and begins prodding the next one. “And what happened to doctor-patient confidentiality? Last I checked, you weren’t in the room, nor are you involved in the case— this isn’t your territory, Kenny.”

“Oh, bull-hockey! I _am_ on the case, Kyle— psych, remember? Serious overdose.” Kenny drops the fork into his bowl, which is miraculously now half-empty. Kyle gives him a look, but Kenny doesn’t seem to notice it; if he does, he certainly doesn’t acknowledge it. Kenny steals Kyle’s cup of coffee and takes a hearty swig… only to make a face and put it right back down on the table.

“Idiot,” Kyle mutters. Kenny scoffs.

“Black?” Kenny asks, incredulous, sticking his tongue out in displeasure of the taste. “Dude, the hospital coffee is so bad, how can you stand that shit?”

“It tastes bad, sure,” Kyle admits, “But it keeps me awake, and that’s pretty much all I need.”

Kenny huffs and goes back to his pasta, though doesn’t eat it with nearly as much gusto as he’d had at first. “Whatever keeps you goin’ on those hell-shifts you pull,” he says, apparently willing to drop it now. Kyle is aware, however, that Kenny is less than pleased at his reasoning for needing the coffee. They’ve discussed it— had a few fights about it, really— but they’ve both come to the unanimous conclusion that no matter what, Kyle’s not planning on letting up.

“I’m doing my job, Kenny,” Kyle says, allowing his tone to go soft for a bit. He picks up his coffee cup and takes a sip. It took a very long time of dating (and kissing and making out and some sex) to get Kyle completely comfortable with sharing food and drink with Kenny like this. Then again, that type of thing tends to come with marriage, doesn’t it? Kenny _is_ his person, after all.

“Yeah, your job, the whole ‘saving lives and beating death’ thing.” Kenny sounds way too agreeable there. Kyle knows what’s coming before Kenny even inhales for his next statement of: “ _Not_ telling people to stop treating an overdose.”

“I didn’t tell them to stop treating an overdose,” Kyle says. Another bite of chicken, another round of chewing. Slivers of almonds are in this thing, too? Fine by him, he’s okay with almonds. He finds a few more cranberries, picks them out, and then collects the entirety of them and drops them on Kenny’s napkin. Kenny makes a pleased noise and snacks on them. Suddenly, however, he ceases.

“Oh, hey, don’t you distract me with your seductive cranberries, mister,” Kenny says, shaking his fork accusingly at Kyle. He continues to eat the cranberries, though. Kyle shrugs and continues eating. Kenny doesn’t drop it; Kyle doesn’t expect him to. “You told them to stop, Kyle, that’s telling them to… well, it’s telling them to _stop_.”

“As a physician—”

“Don’t do it,” Kenny warns, but Kyle ignores him.

“ _As a physician_ ,” Kyle repeats, more insistent, “I swore to do no harm, and that’s all I was doing.”

Kenny opens his mouth to respond, but Kyle interrupts before he can go off on one of his patented tangents.

“You didn’t hear the way he was screaming,” Kyle says, quiet though he doesn’t mean to be. He clears his throat and tucks away another sip of his coffee; it’s warm on his throat and bitter on the very back of his tongue, lingering. “He was freaking out, okay? He didn’t know where he was, and he was being surrounded by a team of adults he’d never met before… anyone would be overwhelmed, Kenny, and tack on the fact that he’d taken enough Vicodin to drop his respiratory rate dangerously low? He needed a minute, tell me you wouldn’t have done the same thing.”

For a moment, Kenny says nothing. They both sit in the hospital’s cafeteria, picking at their respective lunches and chewing silently on their food. As the break wears on, Kyle begins to wonder if Kenny will respond with much of anything at all. Just when Kyle finishes his bowl of chicken salad, Kenny says, “That was really dangerous, Kyle.”

“I know.”

“What if he didn’t agree? You’re _really_ lucky he didn’t deny more than he did, you know that? I mean, he tried to kill himself.”

“That’s speculation.”

“It’s not,” Kenny says. They share a look, one that reads the things neither of them are willing to speak. They finally drop the topic, both having knowledge on that decision without saying it. Kyle looks away and gathers his things, piling his trash and scraps in his bowl to toss it in the garbage can on his way out. Before Kyle can stand, Kenny grabs Kyle’s arm, a goofy, expectant look on his face. Kenny changes his grip from Kyle’s arm to Kyle’s scrub top, tugging. “Babe.”

“I am not kissing you, you smell like watered-down pasta sauce,” Kyle laughs, ignoring the way Kenny keeps tugging him down by his shirt. He tries to pull away, but Kenny is insistent.

“Babyyy,” Kenny whines, playful.

Kyle rolls his eyes and gives Kenny a peck on the lips. “Happy?”

Kenny lets go of Kyle’s top and grins, obviously proud of himself. “Thank you, babe,” he says. Kyle rolls his eyes and finishes off his coffee. Kenny finishes off his pasta and sighs. “I have a diagnostic later, wish me luck.”

“Oh, please, you’ve done hundreds of those, you don’t need luck.” Kyle stands and gives Kenny another quick, passing peck on the mouth before he leaves, tossing his trash in the bin on his way out of the cafeteria.

“Thank you for the cranberries, by the way!” Kenny calls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments / feedback / constructive criticism; all is welcome!


	3. Blood Pressure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A businessman comes into the ER.

It’s over a clipboard of paperwork and a pen low on ink that Kyle notices a well-dressed, albeit chubby, man come into the ER. He has his nose buried in his phone, tapping a message into it with his thumbs. Whether it be an email or some other form of digital communication, Kyle is unsure. The only thing he’s really certain of is the way a woman follows him. She’s young and also quite put-together, though significantly more casual in her red summer dress than the man’s charcoal business suit. She’s scurrying, giving him pats on the shoulder, which he dismisses in a very exasperated manner. Kyle rolls his eyes, and when he recognizes that a triage nurse is leading them to one of the beds, Kyle buries himself back in the paperwork.

Only a few minutes later, Kyle swears he hears someone call his name. He glances around the area, but he sees no one who might know him, so he returns to his clipboard. After jotting down some things and giving the nurse at the desk what he’s filled out for the chart, they share a nod and he’s on his way through the bay.

“Hey, psst! Jew!”

That’s not at all Kyle’s name, nor is it a way to address him, but he gets that feeling that you get when someone’s addressing you, even if they’re doing it incorrectly, and he turns around. He finds himself face-to-face, looking at the man who had come in with the triage nurse earlier. Kyle must admit, the man looks quite pompous, even sitting in that bed. The woman Kyle saw with him has since disappeared, flocking off somewhere that Kyle can’t say he much cares to be privy to. Making eye-contact, now, the man makes a strange expression— like he’s not sure whether to grin or grimace— and beckons Kyle over with the hand not fidgeting with the cell phone.

“Yeah, Jew, c’mere.”

Significantly put-off by the demeanor of this man, Kyle approaches. He stops near the foot of the man’s bed and forces himself to keep his hands in the pockets of his white coat rather than crossing them exasperatedly over his chest like he oh-so-dearly wants to. “How may I help you, mister…?”

“Cartman,” the man says, glancing Kyle up and down. He doesn’t try to hide his displeasure, and although Kyle finds he has no clue what this man is displeased about, Kyle also finds that he doesn’t much care. He glances around for a chart on the man. Meanwhile, Cartman continues, “Eric Cartman— look, alright, I don’t need anything special from you or anything, so don’t try to work your spooky Jew magic on me, I’m not about to buy into the offer.”

Kyle makes a noise of incredulity. “I’m sorry, but why does it matter if I’m Jewish?”

“I’m really just sick and tired of you ‘ _mensches_ ’—” ah, air quotes, how lovely “—schlepping around in my business ventures all the time, at this point,” Mr. Cartman says, waving a hand about dismissively. Kyle makes a mental note that this man is antisemitic and abruptly pushes any personal biases away in favor of doing his job. He finally spots what he can assume to be Mr. Cartman’s file on a nearby cart, and retrieves it. Sure enough, when he flips it open, he sees Mr. Cartman’s name right at the top in big, less-than-neat writing.

“It says here you’ve been suffering from chest pain,” Kyle says. He flips through the rest of the chart, but there is admittedly very little on this man in the few pages available. Check marks and a recommendation for treatment; rest and fluids and observation.

“Oh, just a little,” Mr. Cartman says, doing that dismissive hand-wave thing again. His phone buzzes in his hand, and he quickly checks it, scrolling through whatever it is that his attention is so raptly invested in. Kyle watches demurely, retrieving a pen from his pocket. Mr. Cartman hardly glances up before adding, “It’s probably just heartburn, I wouldn’t even be here if it weren’t for Heidi…”

“Your wife?” Kyle asks, recalling the woman from earlier. Mr. Cartman snaps his fingers in confirmation.

“You got it.” Mr. Cartman seems utterly bored for a moment, but his demeanor quickly changes when something seems to register. His eyes widen and he looks up at Kyle quickly, a skeptical expression in his eye. “How did you know she was my wife? Have you been spying on me, you sneaky little man?”

Kyle contemplates bringing up the fact that he’s taller than this man, though after another glance at Mr. Cartman’s weight, decides it best to leave it be. Kyle clicks his pen and readies himself to begin writing. “She was probably right to bring you in… chest pain can be very serious, you know,” he says. “Have you been experiencing any pain or tenderness in your left arm or in your jaw?”

“Alright, listen, buddy,” Mr. Cartman says, finally clicking off his phone and returning his obvious attention to the conversation at hand. His eyes, firm and glinting in the overhead lighting, hold something that Kyle finds peculiar. “I called you over here to get checked out faster, not to be drawn-over like one of your goddamn French girls, a’ight? Great, now that we’re on the same page, can you please assure my wife I’m good to go? I’m only in Denver for a couple more days before I head back to New York, and quite frankly, I am not about to go spritzing my business trip on a run-in with some Jewish nurse—”

“I’m a doctor.”

“— _nurse_ in a creepy hospital that probably has some sort of Ashkenazi disease from the first version of the Biblia,” Mr. Cartman says. Apparently beginning to get agitated, Mr. Cartman shifts forward in his seat on the bed. A nurse bustles in the background, a banana bag in hand. Kyle reorients himself just in time to see Mr. Cartman beginning to stand. “My wife is probably flipping her lid because she thinks I’m having some sort of heart attack or something, which is fucking stupid, so if you would just assure her tha—”

Mr. Cartman cuts off. His shoulders tense and slouch a bit, and his free hand suddenly finds grasp on the cart which previously held his chart. It rolls a little under the suddenness of his weight bearing on it, and Kyle quickly drops the chart and pen on the free space on the cart and guides Mr. Cartman back to a seated position in bed. Mr. Cartman tries to push Kyle’s hands away from him, but most of his focus appears to be elsewhere. His face has become a bit flushed, and only now does Kyle recognize the slight labor on Mr. Cartman’s inhales. When the wave of pain seems to pass for the most part, Kyle asks, “Mr. Cartman, are you having any difficulty breathing?”

“Yeah, I’m having fucking difficulty breathing, you’re stifling me, you—” but Mr. Cartman cuts off before he can finish, leaving Kyle wondering what creative insult had been interrupted. He also wonders at the cause of Mr. Cartman’s sudden drop, and quickly moves to pull his stethoscope from around his neck. He doesn’t get that far, however, before—

“Baby!”

Kyle looks over his shoulder, and there stands the woman from earlier— Heidi, apparently, and from the fact that Mr. Cartman confirmed they are married, likely Heidi Cartman. Her ashy-blond hair has been tied up in a messy ponytail, bangs pushed to one side. A look of perpetual worry seems to be glued to her face, particularly as she advances with quick-paced strides towards Kyle and Mr. Cartman.

“Eric,” Mrs. Cartman says, coming to a stop behind Mr. Cartman at the opposite side of the bed from where Kyle stands. She places a caring hand on her husband’s shoulder.

“I’m going to check your pulse,” Kyle notifies, and when Mr. Cartman makes a growling noise, Kyle perceives it more or less as consent. Kyle takes Mr. Cartman’s arm and presses the index and middle fingers of his hand against the inside of Mr. Cartman’s wrist, shifting until he finds the pulse point. He keeps an eye on his watch as he counts the beats.

“Hey, babe,” Mr. Cartman says in one of the most painfully obvious tones of exhaustion Kyle has ever heard. “I thought you were getting coffee? You said you were getting coffee.”

Kyle finishes with the heart rate and moves on. It’s a bit elevated, even for Mr. Cartman’s weight. He retrieves the blood pressure cuff and instructs Mr. Cartman to roll up his sleeve. Begrudgingly, Mr. Cartman does, mid-conversation as Kyle takes his blood pressure.

“Well, I don’t think coffee’s a good idea right now,” Mrs. Cartman says firmly. Mr. Cartman huffs. Kyle glares at him, but Mr. Cartman pays him no mind. “With your heart, you wouldn’t want a stimulant—”

“For you! Coffee for you! It always calms you down when you're all atwitter with freaking— premature panic, I swear, you're in a constant state of withdrawal...” Mr. Cartman says. Kyle blinks at the number on the cuff and quickly removes it, hanging it back up on the wall. “And, F-Y-I, my heart is  _fine_ , Heidi.”

“One-thirty over ninety,” Kyle says, retrieving the chart. The couple looks at Kyle, Heidi apparently much more concerned than Mr. Cartman at this revelation. Kyle looks up from the chart just in time to see a nurse start to pass. He gestures her over.

Mr. Cartman looks at his wife and asks, “What? What’s one-thirty over ninety supposed to mean?”

The nurse comes over to the bed. “What can I do, Dr. B?”

“Make sure this man is given an EKG to confirm a heart attack, please,” Kyle says quietly, giving the nurse the edited chart. She takes it and looks it over, nodding her head.

Mr. Cartman’s face goes very red as he asks, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, but _what did you just say_?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments / feedback / constructive criticism; all is welcome!


	4. John Doe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kyle visits the John Doe who came in the night before.

Mr. Cartman’s EKG did, in fact, confirm a heart attack, and after assuring that he was in the correct hands of a cardiologist, Kyle had made his leave to grab himself another cup of coffee. His long shift from the start of the early hours of the morning has started to take its toll on his eyes, leaving him vaguely sleep-deprived and seriously looking forward to the nap he’ll be able to steal later on— if he even gets to it. The coffee should keep him awake long enough to get him through the rest of his shift. Then he can go home to his house, with his husband, and sleep hard enough to be borderline comatose. Man, what he would give for his shift to end now…

On his way down the hall, Kyle recognizes the scenery of the pediatric ward ahead of him. He tends to stay out of this area of the hospital, but sometimes his walk-through of the ward just can’t be helped. Now, fortunately, is not one of those times; his specialty is trauma, not pediatric care. He turns on his heel to head off towards the cafeteria, but something stops him short. He recalls the kid from last night. Perhaps with poor judgment, Kyle turns right back around and pushes past the doors of the pediatric ward.

Nurses and doctors with light scrubs pass him by with busy looks and hurried steps. Clyde Donovan, a nurse he has been fairly well-acquainted with for the past few years, greets him with a smile, though quickly returns to the charts he’s manning to no blame from Kyle. Everyone in this hospital knows that the amount of paperwork is grueling and sets aside a standard of its own. Often, little time is left between tasks to do much other than prepare for the next.

Kyle strides casually over to a room in the corner of the ward near a block of windows. Light sheds in from the large panels, and the play area for the younger children is just a tad down the hall from here. There is only a moment’s hesitation before Kyle peeks into the room, curious on if the kid is awake.

He’s not.

It’s certainly against the code he follows, but Kyle finds himself unperturbed by such a fact as he steps into the room and retrieves the chart resting on the desk-table which holds the computer. He doesn’t log into the terminal, as he has no reason to. In fact, he has no reason to be here at all, but that doesn’t stop him. Maybe when he was younger and cared a lot more about his image, but for now, he cares more about the wellbeing of this kid. Kyle can’t see the kid’s face very well with the oxygen mask strapped over his nose and mouth, but he doesn’t really need to. One look at his eyes is enough to recognize the state of distress he must have been in.

There are dark crescents just under the kid’s lower lids. Not filled or swollen to any extent, but definitely black and bruised from insomnia. There’s a certain yellow beneath it all, as well, and if Kyle didn’t know better he would suspect the kid to be jaundiced. The kid’s skin tone, other than the mild yellow beneath his eyes, is a healthy shade of tan. Kyle flips through the chart and silently reads up on his status, listening to the quiet sounds of children playing down the hall.

Maybe Kyle subconsciously expected it, but there’s no information on this kid whatsoever. The name under his chart is a blaring JOHN DOE. His age, as well, is unknown, though he’s quite obviously an older teen.

Rustling.

Kyle looks up from the chart and finds himself looking into the familiar blue eyes of John Doe. They’re not watering, as his tears have dried, but there is a subconjunctival hemorrhage in the left sclerae. John Doe doesn’t move enough to sit up. The only thing he does is adjust his position to be slightly more comfortable. Kyle sets the chart down and comes over, sitting at the edge of the kid’s bed.

“Hello,” Kyle greets. John Doe doesn’t respond very effectively, though he does visibly swallow. That’s a good sign. “How are you feeling?”

John Doe reaches up with his hand— right, likely the dominant one— to pull the oxygen mask away from his face. He tugs it down so it hangs over his chin rather than over his mouth. Kyle’s instincts tell him to keep the kid from doing that, but he doesn’t manage to do so before John Doe begins to speak. “I feel…” John Doe’s voice is very croaky. His throat is likely dry from oxygen and lack of liquids over the course of the morning. John Doe swallows again, closing his eyes and mumbling the rest of his words. “…like I got into a helmet-to-helmet collision with the competition’s quarterback…”

Once more, John Doe takes a second to swallow.

“…except that quarterback was on steroids.” Another pause. And then, John Doe laughs. “And I forgot to do weight training that week, so…”

John Doe lifts the oxygen mask back over his mouth, taking a moment to just breathe. Kyle can’t fault him for that. He looks exhausted. The moment passes, and John Doe moves on with his simile.

“So I was just the… the defense waiting for the blow…” another pause for breath. He draws a thick inhale, though this time it sounds a bit rattly. “And—”

“Alright, buddy,” Kyle says, removing his stethoscope from around his neck. He places the ear tips into his ears. “I have a feeling you could go all day, so I’m gonna stop you there… can you lean forward for me?”

There’s a lag before John Doe moves, which is fine. Doe has replaced the oxygen mask over his mouth and nose, which will probably help whatever shortness of breath he’s having. Kyle supports Doe with a hand on his shoulder while he uses the other to push away the top flaps of his hospital gown. He finds the area high up on the back of Doe’s torso and presses the diaphragm over the skin on the left side, where the top of the lungs start.

“Nice, deep breath in for me,” Kyle says. Doe follows instructions. “Good, and exhale.”

Doe does. Kyle listens for even breath sounds on the other side. When Kyle moves the right flap of Doe’s gown aside, he notices the distinct fold of a scar on Doe's right shoulder, raised and pale in comparison to the rest of his skin.

“What’s that?” Kyle asks, making sure to be casual about it. He doesn’t have to do anything special for Doe to know what Kyle is talking about. It’s a small scar, in a bit of an odd place. He must get asked about it a lot.

“My battle scar,” says Doe. He inhales, and there’s a moment of interference in what Kyle is listening to. To be polite (and also because he’s curious), Kyle pulls one of the ear tips away from his ear to listen. Doe says nothing for a moment more, simply breathing with the aid of the oxygen mask. Eventually, Doe continues, “My super-cool battle scar.”

Kyle nods, and when he realizes Doe is finished speaking, he goes back to checking the kid’s breathing. When the top lobes of both lungs sound clear, Kyle checks the next lowest breath point. In a few minutes, Kyle has managed to clear Doe of any major respiratory concerns. He returns the stethoscope around his neck and helps Doe lay back.

“So,” Kyle says. “You gonna tell me your name, or what?”

Without hesitation, John Doe replies with an oxygen-mask-muffled, “No.”

“Okay… date of birth?” Doe shakes his head. Kyle quirks a brow. “Why not?”

“Because then…” another pause, though this time, Kyle doesn’t know if it’s from breathing difficulty or if it’s from Doe’s thought process. “…if— if I tell you all that— that _crap_ , you’ll find my parents, and…”

“And you don’t want them to find you,” Kyle finishes. There’s a long pause before Doe nods his confirmation. Kyle can’t help it; he frowns, and his brows furrow. He tries to keep his voice level. “Why don’t you want them to find you?”

Doe inhales. Exhales. Inhales. Exhales: “They don't believe me.”

"About what?"

"No comment."

For a moment, Kyle is unsure of how exactly to progress. What type of question is he supposed to ask if the kid won’t do so much as give his name? Hell, if such a thing weren’t visible, the odds of this John Doe giving his sex would be extraordinarily slim. Kyle taps his fingers, drumming them on his knee in thought. Eventually, he says, “Well, at least help me find a name we can use for you.”

John Doe looks at Kyle, appearing mildly perplexed. Kyle smiles.

“As much as we all love the name, I’m sure we’d appreciate being able to call you something other than John Doe,” Kyle explains. Doe nods, understanding.

John Doe pulls the mask off of his mouth once more, inhaling deeply before replying, “Then call me John Elway.”

Kyle huffs a mildly amused breath. “Did you just say _John Elway_?”

“Yeah,” Doe says. There’s a bit more power to his voice, collecting in his chest more than the agitated area of his throat. “Y’know, the… former American football quarterback who is currently general manager and president of football operations of the Denver Broncos of the National Football League—”

“I know who John Elway is,” Kyle says. “You know a lot about him, huh?”

“I memorized his Wikipedia page,” Doe says, his expression brightening.

“Why?” Kyle asks.

“Because he’s my hero.”

There is silence. They look at each other. The red of the subconjunctival hemorrhage appears more distinct, and at this point, Kyle is reminded distinctly of the fact that this kid really is just that: a kid. He still has that star-struck quality in his eyes, the expression that can only be attained by people not _entirely_ jaded by the crap involved in growing up.

Kyle finds himself wondering what the hell happened to him to push him to overdose— and why he had Vicodin handy in the first place.

“Okay, Elway,” Kyle says. That makes Doe— er, _Elway_ — smile. "What landed you in here?"

“I tried to kill myself,” Elway says, and the blunt way in which he does so is extraordinarily shocking. Kyle knows his expression has become tense, but Elway remains unperturbed. He goes into more detail. "Drove myself up here, found a good, desolate field, and chugged some pills... not very nice, I don't recommend it, but there are much, much worse ways to go..."

Elway swallows. Kyle says nothing, admittedly disturbed.

"I'm done talking about that," Elway says. "Can I get some water?"

“Go ahead and call the nurse,” Kyle says. Elway fumbles for a moment trying to find the call button, but he finds it soon enough. He presses it and they return to their conversation. “So... tell me, Elway, do you play football?”

“No comment,” says Elway. After having been conscious for a little longer, Elway sounds better. His throat is still obviously parched, but he is breathing easier.

“Y’know, your little example earlier was very specific,” Kyle says. “Almost as if you knew what that type of thing felt like.”

Elway blinks as if confused, though after a moment or two he’s able to think something through and respond with, “If I got into a head-to-head collision with a quarterback on steroids, do you think I’d live to tell the tale?”

“Don’t know,” Kyle says. “Did you?”

“I did.”

“He wasn’t actually on steroids, was he?”

“Oh, no, he was,” Elway says. “He just wasn’t on them for all that long.”

Kyle opens his mouth to respond with a less than elaborate statement, probably a soft _oh, wow_ or a _no kidding?_  but he doesn’t manage to get that far before there’s a knock on the door frame. Kyle looks over his shoulder at the door, and is pleasantly surprised to find Clyde Donovan, grinning like this is the most awesome thing he’s had to do all day. He’s definitely got that child-friendly attitude— and the peppy personality to match. “Well, look at you! You’re awake, huh?” Clyde says. “What can I get for you, bro?”

But there’s only silence. Kyle looks over at Elway to make sure he hasn’t fallen asleep. Sure enough, he’s still awake. His expression is unreadable, but his eyes are slightly wider than they had been just a moment ago. Kyle briefly wonders if Elway is socially anxious and answers for him, “He’s thirsty, can he have water?”

“I’ll go see what I can do,” Clyde answers. He disappears for a few minutes. In those few minutes, Kyle takes the time to ask Elway if he’s alright.

“I’m okay,” Elway says, not missing a beat. Kyle wonders if it was just a fluke, or maybe he had spoken but they hadn’t heard him over the hum of the oxygen.

Clyde comes back soon enough. When he makes his way over, he has a thin plastic cup full of ice chips in hand. He pulls up the table attached to the hospital bed and sets the cup down. “Hey, man, I’m sorry I couldn’t get ya water, but we’re a little worried about your airways and we want to make sure you’ve recovered enough before we allow you to have full-on liquids… this should help your dry mouth, though, okay?”

Elway is silent again. Clyde and Kyle share a look, though even Kyle isn’t quite sure of what to make of the situation. There’s a split second of nothing before Clyde moves on, apparently unperturbed by the silence.

“While I’m here, I do have to run some quick checks, is that okay?” Clyde asks. Elway gives Kyle a look, like he’s waiting for something. Or maybe he isn’t waiting for something, so much as he is unsure of himself. Kyle isn’t quite certain, but he doesn’t want to leave the kid on his own after all of this. Almost subconsciously, Kyle gives a little nod. Elway follows suit in the nod, turning his gaze to Clyde and dipping his eye-contact for a second as he silently accepts. Clyde does a quick check-in on Elway’s vitals, and after that, he pushes the table closer to Elway so he can reach without strain. Clyde jots down the information on the chart. “I’ll be out in the nurse’s station, kid— if you need anything, I’m your man.”

Once again, Elway says nothing. It’s almost painfully silent for a third time, but Clyde takes it in stride and dismisses himself without appearing phased whatsoever. Kyle reflects on how he might react in a similar situation while in Clyde’s position, and quickly determines he wouldn’t be nearly as relaxed about it.

Kyle settles back in. Elway has retrieved the cup of ice chips from the small table. Elway pulls down his oxygen mask and places an ice chip in his mouth, then silently returns the cup to the table and fidgets with the oxygen mask as he works on the ice. There are a lot of questions that Kyle has for Elway, including the issue with his silence, but he asks none of them.

They sit in silence. Kyle, enjoying the moment of downtime in the midst of his shift, and Elway repeating his routine with the ice chips, retrieving the cup to pop in an ice chip and then putting the cup back, only to repeat when it melts. At some point, Kyle has to wonder if he’s doing it because it’s something to do, rather than because he’s that parched. Then again, Kyle has never overdosed on Vicodin in a field and woken up in the pediatric ward, so maybe he shouldn’t speculate on this kid’s motives.

Eventually, Kyle’s pager rings off. Elway flinches at the unexpected noise. Kyle checks the page with practiced ease and stands.

Elway grabs his coat sleeve.

When Kyle looks down at him, Elway’s blue eyes have gained something that was there the very first time Kyle saw him: fear.

Admittedly, he feels a bit put-off. Not about the kid, but about the fact that he has to leave him. Normally, he isn’t all that bothered by leaving patients on their own— but this is different. Kyle has never found himself in this situation before, where a pediatric patient is left, one hundred percent, utterly, and truly, _alone_.

“I have to take this,” Kyle says. Elway’s eyes go a bit wider. Kyle quickly adds, “I’ll be back in later, though, to check on you… I’ll be back later.”

Elway inhales; it sounds through the air.

“I will,” Kyle repeats.

Although still looking fearful, Elway’s grip on Kyle’s coat sleeve loosens… until he lets go completely. Kyle walks out of Elway’s room as calmly as possible, then starts jogging as soon as he’s out of sight. He doesn’t want to freak Elway out with excess movement; he seems to be skittish enough as it is. But a 911 page is a 911 page, and Kyle has to move— without coffee.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments / feedback / constructive criticism; all is welcome!


	5. On-Call

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kyle and Kenny discuss the mysterious case of John Doe- er... Elway.

Finding an on-call room to rest in during his next break is not difficult in the slightest. There are plenty of them dispersed through the hospital and there just happened to be one open very close to the area of the code blue.

Kyle pushes into the on-call room and closes the door behind him, unable to help himself from letting out a soft yawn. His eyes water from it, and he recognizes the fact that he is absolutely exhausted. He makes sure to check, double-check, and triple-check the sheets before crawling into one of the beds. He places his pager next to his head so he’ll hear it without a doubt, and allows himself to fall asleep.

When he next awakes, the room is darker than it had been a moment ago. Significantly darker, in fact, and in a panic, he reaches for his pager. He doesn’t find his pager. Instead, he finds a human laying right next to him. For a second, Kyle is extraordinarily weirded-out— until he realizes that the human who crawled in next to him is his husband.

“For goodness’ sake,” Kyle mutters, collapsing back down on the bed. Kenny laughs, revealing the fact that he is, indeed, awake. As Kyle’s eyes adjust to the darkness of the room relatively quickly. He lays on his back and stares up at the ceiling. Kenny shifts so he’s no longer laying on his side, and is instead on his back doing the same. It’s like that one time they went stargazing back in college, except slightly more comfortable and with less ants.

Also, about a decade older.

“I feel old,” Kyle notes.

“You’re thirty-four, you’re not old,” Kenny says.

“I’m old. I’m old, and I’m dying.”

Kenny lets out a soft chuckle. “Need me to kiss it better?”

“Ew, don’t come near me with that cheap-pasta breath of yours.” Kyle nudges Kenny in the arm with his elbow, to which Kenny responds with a nudge back.

“I will have you know that I had the decency to eat a cupcake before coming here, you big whiner,” Kenny says. “I will taste like buttercream and chocolate, thank you very much.”

Kyle hums his response, a single-note grunt of some sort that conveys more of his lack of energy than his amusement with their mild-mannered banter. He has the urge to doze off again, but the ceiling above him glares with a tone he can’t shake. So he thinks, taking up his mind with trivialities and other, slightly less trivial things. With a sigh, Kyle says, “This has been a weird fucking day.”

“Yeah?” Kenny replies. “You wanna unload on me? And before you say anything, no, that is not an innuendo.”

“You took it there, not me.” Kyle rubs his eyes, vaguely knowledgeable about how it feels to keep them closed. It’s kind of nice, really, and it allows his brain to catch up a bit. He has never been able to talk with his eyes closed, however, so he opens them back up and indulges in Kenny’s willingness to listen. “You know that kid from last night? He’s kind of weird.”

“Weird how?” Kenny asks.

“Like…” Kyle takes a moment’s pause before he relays the tale of how he went to see Elway just a few hours ago. “I went to go check on him a while ago, just to see how he was doing, and he woke up while I was in there looking over his chart.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Kyle says. “So I sat down and we had a conversation, I checked his breath sounds, he used this really elaborate football analogy to describe how he felt, that sort of thing.”

“Really elaborate football analogy?”

“I’m not a football person, Kenny, you know that.”

“Yes, I know,” Kenny says. “But I like football, and when you say ‘really elaborate football analogy’ I wanna hear a really elaborate football analogy. Just saying.”

Kyle inhales deeply and brings the breath back out in a sigh. He tries to recall the analogy, and with some difficulty, says, “It was something about how he felt like he’d been involved in a helmet-on-helmet collision with a quarterback on steroids… there was more to it, but I honestly don’t remember.”

“Damn,” Kenny says. “He actually go through that?”

“He said no at first, but I weaseled it out of him that he had… he might be lying, though I’m a little worried about his brain.”

“Do you think that might be why he acted weird? Maybe some wrong wiring going on up—” Kenny taps the side of Kyle’s head “—here?”

“Sure as hell could be one reason,” Kyle admits. There’s a second’s pause before he returns to describing his interaction with the kid. When he gets to the part where Elway clammed up at Clyde’s introduction, Kenny makes a noise— that noise of his that says he’s found something intriguing.

“He just stopped talking?”

“Yeah, he just stopped talking,” Kyle says. “Wouldn’t say a word of what he wanted or what he was thinking, just stared kind of deer-in-the-headlights, like he didn’t know what he was supposed to do.”

“I see.”

“And then when Clyde left, I asked him if he was okay— I thought maybe he was having trouble breathing again or something, y’know? But he said he was fine, literally said, ‘I’m okay’, as if nothing had happened at all.”

“Well… technically, nothing _did_ happen,” Kenny says, cheeky.

“Don’t you dare do the technicality stuff on me,” Kyle says. Kenny snickers and instructs Kyle to continue. Kyle does. “Then Clyde came back and the same thing, just up and stopped speaking. Clyde asked the kid if it was okay if he ran some checks, and then Elway just… looked at me, like I had the answers, or something, so I—”

“—you nodded, didn’t you.”

“—so I nodded, and then he looked at Clyde and nodded, and…”

“Good going, Kyle.”

Kyle furrows his brows and looks over. He doesn’t see much in the dark, but what he does see is enough to pull the conclusion that Kenny has come to some sort of hypothesis about the kid. Or maybe the situation, Kyle isn’t quite sure. “What do you mean, ‘good going’?”

“He probably, like, imprinted on you, or something,” Kenny says. “You were there when he was wheeled in, you told the doctors to stop, you calmed him down— Kyle, he trusts you, and if what I’m thinking is right, it seems like the kid might have trouble trusting much of anyone.”

Kyle frowns. “Okay, what does that mean for me?”

“It means he’s probably going to be really attached to you.” Kenny sighs. “Look, okay, I have to talk to the kid later tonight, y’know, since he was brought in on an overdose— I have to check in and make sure he isn’t suicidal, and if he is, we gotta admit him to the psych ward.”

“I can’t visit him in the psych ward.”

“I know,” Kenny says. “That’s my point.”

“What’s he going to do if he only trusts me, and I can’t visit him? How is he going to react to that?”

“Now that, I don’t know,” Kenny says. “But I’d say it’s likely he won’t exactly take _well_ to it.”

“So what are we supposed to do? He won’t talk to anyone, and he won’t tell me anything about himself, not so much as a first name,” Kyle says. There is a long, unnerving pause that Kyle finds he dislikes quite a bit. He rolls onto his side, looking at Kenny. Kenny turns his head. “I don’t want him to be alone, but we can’t find his parents.”

“Look, okay, I don’t want you taking my word as gospel,” Kenny says. “This is just one of the many possibilities of what could be going on inside that kid’s head— or, outside of it, more like, I don’t think any of us will be able to really get that kid unless he starts going to therapy, but even then we can’t guarantee he’ll open up.

“There might be trauma there that we have to deal with,” Kenny says. “That might be a reason why he’s unwilling to talk to anyone— or maybe he’s always been on the socially anxious side, and you feel safe to him, or maybe Clyde just reminded him of someone from wherever he came from, some school bully or something…”

“Which brings us right back to trauma?” Kyle asks.

“Yeah,” Kenny says, quiet. “Which brings us right back to trauma.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments / feedback / constructive criticism; all is welcome!


	6. Pager

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mr. Cartman calls Kyle into his room again, and Kyle is paged to a situation.

“Aye, Jew!”

Kyle doesn’t usually spend much time in the coronary care unit, but of course the one time he has to run an errand for the cardiologist on-call, he also has to deal with Mr. Antisemitic. For a while, Kyle simply hopes he can ignore it. He has to say, though, it’s very difficult to focus on paperwork and charts when a loud New Yorker is trying to get his attention.

“Aye! Jew!”

“Dr. B.” Kyle looks up from his paperwork just long enough to see the young, no-bullshit face of Craig Tucker, a resident apparently overexcited about specializing in neurology. As much as this kid rubs Kyle the wrong way, his blunt honesty and total lack of giveashit is admirable. “Mr. Cartman is asking for you.”

“Yes, Tucker, I am fully aware that Mr. Cartman is asking for me,” Kyle replies, clicking his pen and replacing it in his pocket. He flips the chart closed and leaves it on the desk of the nurse’s station, confident he can get it where he needs it to go after dealing with the huge pain in the ass that is Eric Cartman. Kyle takes a deep breath and prepares his best casual smile and more-or-less happy attitude before turning and entering Mr. Cartman’s room.

“Hello, Mr. Cartman, what can I help you with?” Kyle asks. Mr. Cartman looks up from where he is in bed, fidgeting rather heartily with his phone, as would be expected. It’s a little strange, really, seeing this man in the hospital gown rather than his already patented business suit. He just has this very _psychopathic businessman_ air to him.

“What can you help me with? _What can you help me with_?” As Eric’s face reddens, Kyle silently settles in, pushing his hands into his pockets and waiting for the inevitable swarm of insults and slurs. “I’m stuck in this shithole of a hospital for three days, thanks to you! I was supposed to catch a flight tomorrow afternoon but now I can’t do that, and I’ll miss my fucking conference! This was a very important meeting going over very important business matters, goddammit! We had the opportunity to expand and now the only thing expanding is my bill, you kippah-wearing thief!”

“Eric!” comes the voice of Heidi from the corner. She wears a jacket now, donned probably due to the change in weather which occurred not too long ago. It’s unzipped, however, and her red sun dress is still visible. She rubs anxiously at her clavicle. With a sigh, she looks to Kyle, her brows knitted in distress. “I’m sorry for my husband, sir, he has no filter.”

Kyle is almost surprised when he sees the vicious glare that Mrs. Cartman gives her husband. Mr. Cartman seems none too pleased, although he doesn’t appear to notice the glare. He continues quietly cussing under his breath, though it’s to such a low volume that it’s essentially inaudible. Kyle clears his throat. “It’s fine, Mrs. Cartman,” he says.

“Please, call me Heidi.”

“Heidi,” Kyle corrects himself. He nods and adds, “I don’t think I’ve ever met a New Yorker _with_ a filter, so it’s… to be expected.”

“And he’s a racist gangly bastard, too!” exclaims Mr. Cartman, waving angrily towards Kyle in small, quick flicks of his wrist. Kyle and Heidi share a brief glance, and in that moment, Kyle comes to recognize that he’d be better off not saying anything to the comment. Unfortunately, the moment of ignoring Mr. Cartman only seems to spur him on. Mr. Cartman has a perpetual look of anger, at this point. “Aye! Thanks to you, they cut my fucking groin open and stuck a needle in my leg! I can’t so much as move and you got nothing to say to that?”

“I hear that you’re upset, Mr. Cartman, but—” Mr. Cartman scoffs, quite loudly. He obviously isn’t shy about making sure his displeasure is heard; Kyle can’t tell if he appreciates the directness or if he finds his technique almost laughably over-the-top. Kyle resumes, “—but if we didn’t act quickly, you would have had more to worry about than just a stent and a straight leg.”

“Like your life, babe,” Heidi says. Mr. Cartman rolls his eyes. She narrows her eyes at her husband. “He saved your life, you really should be grateful.”

“Well, he shouldn’t have! Even if I died at the Regency, I’d at least have that contract signed and accounted for.” Mr. Cartman frowns, crossing his arms over his chest in a manner that Kyle finds frighteningly similar to a petulant child. “It was a good goddamn contract.”

“What exactly do you do, Mr. Cartman?” Kyle asks. Then, to make sure he doesn’t agitate him further: “If you don’t mind me asking, of course.”

Mr. Cartman looks frighteningly close to letting loose a string of slurs. Fortunately, Heidi breaks in before he can begin whatever slew he’d been concocting. “He’s an entrepreneur,” she says. Her nervousness seems to have resurfaced. She lifts a hand to her collarbone once more, rubbing at the bottom of her throat with the pads of her fingers. “He’s the CEO of Future and Me in New York.”

“Future and Me?” asks Kyle. Heidi nods; Mr. Cartman still hasn’t moved from where he has his arms crossed over his chest.

“It’s a company that works with at-risk children and teens,” she explains. “Counseling, emergency medical help, lawyers and attorneys— the company makes connections so they can have a better future… my husband might be crude on the surface, but he’s really a very caring man.”

“Way to make me sound like a pussy, Heidi,” Mr. Cartman grumbles. His face has gone red— and his expression reads less in anger and more in vague embarrassment. Quickly, as if to save his pride, Mr. Cartman adds, “It’s not like I do it because I’m… maternal, or whatever, okay? It’s profitable— _profitable_!”

But Mr. Cartman barely sounds like he believes himself. “At-risk teens, huh?” Kyle says. He glances between Mr. Cartman and his wife, curious at just how much of a juxtaposition this man is in comparison to his career. Kyle opens his mouth to speak, but he doesn’t get the chance. His pager goes off, beeping loudly in the silence. He checks it.

Wait, 4026? That’s—

“I’m sorry, but I have to take this—” Kyle says, taking a couple steps toward the door as he speaks. “It was nice chatting, uh— I’ll check in on you later, Mr. Cartman, just to see how you’re doing. Take care.”

If either of them say anything, Kyle doesn’t notice it. He’s too busy hurrying his way out of the CCU, skirting around a small group of nurses on his way up the first flight of stairs he finds. In less than a few minutes, Kyle manages to make his way into the pediatric ward. He beelines it to the back corner with the windows, makes a note that the children aren’t in the play room right at the moment. Kenny and Clyde are standing just outside of Elway’s room. Clyde is gripping the doorknob and keeping anyone from entering or leaving the room. Kenny, on the other hand, keeps stealing glances into the room through the window.

“Let me in there,” Kenny says, firm. There’s a certain tension in his jaw that Kyle recognizes from particularly dire cases and circumstances in the past.

“I’m not letting you in there, McCormick,” Clyde says, snappish but quiet. “I’m not risking you getting hurt or riling him up further just to restrain him!”

“He’s not okay in there, Clyde, let me go in.”

“What happened?” Kyle asks, coming to a stop less than a foot away from the two. His heart is beating in his chest, creating pressure in the base of his throat. Kenny and Clyde share a look, though they seem mostly to be silently arguing with each other than figuring out who is going to explain what.

“I went in for a consult,” Kenny says, gesturing to the room. “I was just about to write down some notes in his chart, when he became agitated… I might have said something, maybe it was a question I asked, but something triggered him.”

“He started throwing things,” Clyde says. “The chart, the chairs, extra blankets from the cabinet—”

“Clyde got us out of there,” Kenny says, shooting a glare Donovan’s way. “And now Clyde won’t let me go back in— Clyde, this is what I do all day every day, I am trained to handle these situations, let me back _in_ there.”

Clyde is silent. Kenny’s agitation hits a peak, and he lifts a hand like he’s about to punch the wall, but he clenches and releases his fists instead, then pushes his fingers through his hair. Kyle rests a hand on Kenny’s shoulder. “Let me in,” Kyle says. Clyde and Kenny look at him with looks of shock and loss, respectively.

“Kyle—” Kenny starts. Clyde interrupts.

“No! Why are you even here? I told Kenny to page security, not you!”

“Security will just freak him out more,” Kyle says. Kenny looks like he’s about to say something, but he doesn’t end up doing so; he simply closes his mouth and nods. “See? The psychiatrist agrees, Clyde, let me in there.”

There’s a moment of tension, but when something clutters from inside, there is no hesitation. Clyde backs away from the door and Kyle pushes in, heart stuttering at what he sees.

Although he was previously hooked up to an IV, Elway has now been disconnected from it. Not by a nurse or any other sort of medical personnel, from what Kyle can see— if the blood dripping from his IV sight is anything to go by. Elway is hyperventilating, clutching at his right shoulder with his left hand, tears budding in his eyes with the oxygen mask gripped tightly in his right. He stands maybe a foot or two from the side of the hospital bed furthest from the door.

The room itself is a mess— the cart is on the floor closest to Kyle’s right foot, and there’s a chair toppled just behind the door in the corner. The IV pole has been pushed over on the floor. A drop of blood and some saline solution has been spilled. Blankets litter the free space, a line of them laid out on the floor like a barrier, separating the room between Elway and Kyle. All of that, however, is none of Kyle’s concern. All he cares about is Elway’s safety.

“Hey, Elway,” Kyle says. Elway doesn’t react. He keeps scrabbling at his shoulder, squeezes the oxygen mask like it’s a fidget toy. He inhales and it sounds very ragged. Kyle takes a step forward. Elway yelps. “Elway, it’s me, it’s Kyle.”

Elway whimpers, but in the mix, he lifts his gaze up from that thousand-yard-stare. They make eye contact, though it is very brief. Momentarily, Kyle is at a loss of what to say.

“I am not going to hurt you,” Kyle says. “We’re not going to hurt you.”

Another inhale from Elway, and another concerning wheezing noise. Kyle takes another step closer.

“Can I help you?” Kyle asks, though he is entirely ready to run over and restrain him for Elway’s own safety, if nothing else. Elway sobs, eyes wide and back to staring at nothing in particular. He looks confused, or like he doesn’t know what to do. Kyle makes the decision to stay put for now. “Can you tell me what happened?”

“I—” that’s all Elway manages. It’s just one word, but it’s a huge relief.

“It’s okay, Elway, it’s just you and me in here,” Kyle says. “You can talk, if you want to.”

“I—” Elway exhales with another sharp, stuttering wheeze. He coughs a few times, dry and constricted. His anxious scrabbling at his shoulder slows. Kyle realizes with a start that he’s grabbing where the scar is. He makes a mental note to steer clear of that shoulder until further notice. Elway tries to inhale, but it’s significantly stunted; there’s a pulling that Kyle sees happen in his throat, something Kyle has seen in—

“Do you have asthma?” Kyle asks. Elway nods. Kyle turns and peeks out of the room. He tells Clyde to grab an inhaler and returns to Elway. “I’m having Clyde get you an inhaler, can you sit on the bed for me, please?”

“No, no I can’t I—” Elway gasps shallowly for breath. He turns, examining the room like he’s trying to find a camera or something. “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t, I—”

“Okay,” Kyle says. “I’m going to come closer, and I’m going to help you into bed.”

Kyle hesitates for a second, waiting for an obvious denial of the offered help, but there is none. More or less taking that as permission, Kyle makes his way forward and supports Elway, holding his hands as he leads the two of them to the bed. Once there, Kyle sits the kid down and helps him stay upright. Kyle takes the hand Elway is using to hold the oxygen mask, and helps Elway secure it over his nose and mouth. Kyle sits down next to Elway on the side of the bed.

“Slow, deep breaths for me,” Kyle says. “C’mon, in… and out… there you go, just like that… look at me, bud.”

Elway looks up, blue eyes wide and inhales stuttering, but significantly slower than previously. His cheeks are wet with tear tracks. Kyle rubs his back.

“You are okay,” Kyle says. He gives a little nod, hoping that it’ll help Elway reaffirm it to himself. As has been done with every nod Kyle has given him, Elway nods back. “Take it slow, kid, everything will be okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments / feedback / constructive criticism; all is welcome!


	7. Debrief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kyle and Elway discuss the situation from earlier.

By the time mealtime rolls around, the atmosphere has calmed down significantly. Elway got the inhaler and his breathing sorted itself out quickly. More than a little worn out, he takes a nap, and since Kyle doesn’t have any active pages or patients, he stays with him for a good twenty minutes. Eventually, Clyde comes in with the dinner tray.

“He still asleep?” Clyde whispers. Kyle only nods, more than a little worn out in the quiet. He thinks about how he’ll be able to go home in another five hours. Most of him is excited, but the rest of him is nervous about leaving Elway here without anyone he trusts. He’ll have to discuss it with the kid once he wakes up, he supposes.

Clyde leaves the tray on the table. He hesitates near the foot of Elway’s bed, looking the kid over silently. Kyle waits for him to say something. Sure enough, he eventually speaks.

“It’s hard,” Clyde says. Kyle looks up, watching Clyde as he crosses his arms over his chest. The way he stands, however, looks more like he’s hugging himself. There’s a very empathetic expression on his face, and he shares a glance with Kyle. “It’s really hard when you want to help them, but they won’t let you, y’know?”

For a moment, Kyle’s thoughts are swept away in a storm of dizziness and disorientation. As his head rushes, his brain is dropped back to where his body is. He shakes his head and blinks himself back to his surroundings. He chokes back a nervous laugh and replies with, “Yeah, it’s— it’s really hard.”

It’s quiet for a beat before Clyde uncrosses his arms and says, “Let me know if you guys need anything, I’ll be here all night.”

“Thank you, Clyde,” Kyle says, and Clyde exits the room. A few minutes later, Elway stirs. It’s funny; Kyle half-expects the dark circles beneath the kid’s eyes to disappear, but they don’t. Elway doesn’t look totally and utterly exhausted, as he had earlier, but he certainly doesn’t look absolutely energized or well, either. Kyle scoots closer in the chair he has pulled up, resting his elbows on his knees.

Elway doesn’t do anything for a few minutes. He just lays, eyes half-open and gazing blearily over at Kyle. The oxygen mask is still attached to his face, helping him get decent air into his lungs. Eventually, Kyle decides he has to talk to him.

“Hey,” Kyle says. Elway blinks in response. “Can you hear me okay?”

Elway nods, saying a muffled, “Yeah,” from underneath the mask.

“Good,” Kyle says. He scoots a little closer, facing Elway a bit more directly. He rests an elbow on the side of the bed, making eye-contact. “I want to talk to you for a bit.”

Elway closes his eyes for just a moment, and in that moment, he removes the oxygen mask from his face. He keeps it in his hand, down near his chin as he says, “Shoot, I’m open.”

Kyle smiles at that sports reference. He knows he’ll keep in mind that Elway is certainly the jock-type. Not in a bad way, just in a very literal way. “About earlier,” Kyle says. “Are you okay to talk about it? I don’t want to push you if it’s too much, but I am concerned and we do have to discuss it eventually.”

There’s a pause— and this time, it isn’t for breath. Elway looks visibly nervous, and for a moment, Kyle expects to see that deer-in-the-headlights look come back. It doesn’t, though; it’s just some anxiety. “Okay,” Elway says. “Okay, yeah, okay.”

Kyle starts small. “Let me know what happened back there.”

Elway swallows. Very quietly, he says, “I didn’t mean to… to do that, I didn’t mean to freak out like that, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Kyle says. “No one’s mad at you, we just want to make sure you’re okay… can I ask what made you upset? Was it something Dr. McCormick said?”

“No, it wasn’t anything he… said,” Elway says. He glances away, then, and Kyle gets the feeling that he might want to start backing off, lest he trigger something else. He plans on giving Elway a break, but Elway seems keen on continuing— to get it off his chest, maybe, if nothing else. “It… dude, it’s embarrassing.”

“No need to be embarrassed,” Kyle says.

“I… it was the pen.”

Kyle doesn’t know what to say to that, so for a moment, it is silent. Eventually, though, Kyle shifts in his seat and asks, “The pen?”

“The pen,” confirms Elway. “I just— the way it clicks, the—”

Elway comes to a choked stop, inhaling in the middle of the word. He lifts the mask back to his face and averts his gaze. Again, it is quiet. Kyle wonders the source of the trouble with the clicking noise, but he knows it’s best not to push it. “We can use pencils,” Kyle suggests. Elway looks at him, appearing confused. Kyle explains, “Instead of pens, we can use pencils around you, if that’d make you more comfortable.”

There’s an expression of relief that spreads over Elway’s face. Gently, he nods. They take a small breather, then, finding the quiet calming in two different ways. Kyle finds himself pained by Elway’s features. The dark hair and blue eyes are so familiar— familiar in a way that’s raw, still red and stripped. He wonders what’s going on in Elway’s head. He doesn’t have to wonder for too long. With a thick inhale, Elway pulls the mask away from his mouth and says, “I didn’t used to be afraid like this, but then I got my super-cool battle scar and everything changed.”

Elway laughs, a painful laugh, a wheezing laugh.

“I hate my stupid super-cool battle scar, man,” he says. “You have no idea, you have no idea at all.”

Kyle nods, knowing that he doesn’t know about any of it. He can’t say he empathizes, nor can he really say he sympathizes, since he doesn’t know what happened to him in order to get that scar. All Kyle knows is that it’s through his shoulder. Like he was stabbed with a pole, or…

Shot.

Kyle finds himself with the sudden urge to examine the scar further, to see if it could resemble anything else he has seen in his years of being a doctor, but he also knows that doing so would be a very bad idea. The last thing he wants to do is throw the kid back into the panic from earlier; they’d had to switch arms for the IV, he’d messed up the site pretty bad. There’s going to be a bandage on his arm for a while, that’s for sure.

Kyle inhales.

“Elway,” he says. That gets Elway to smile— just the mention of John Elway seems to bring him some happiness. It’s interesting, but Kyle does nothing other than smile back. “I also wanted to ask about why you won’t talk to anyone else.”

Elway’s smile goes away quickly. “I just don’t like people,” he eventually says. Kyle wants to believe him, but there’s this tinge to his tone that leaves that to be a difficult thing to do.

“Then why do you talk to me?” Kyle asks. “What’s the difference between you speaking to me, and you speaking to Dr. McCormick?”

“You— you just—” Elway makes a face, like he doesn’t know how to word it. Kyle doesn’t blame him. He wonders if what Kenny said earlier had been correct. If Elway just gets this feeling of safety around Kyle. “You get it, okay? You— you told them to stop, you listened to me when no one else would, and that… it doesn’t happen often.”

“I see,” Kyle says. He shifts. Elway looks at him, eyes wide and slightly damp. Kyle fights the embarrassingly parental urge to brush his hair out of his eyes and tell the kid _it’s going to be okay_. “Well, Dr. McCormick will listen to you, I promise.”

“He’s a shrink,” Elway says, and he makes a different face— this one of skepticism. “It’s in his job description to listen, it freaks me out, it feels fake.”

Kyle frowns. Okay, fair enough… for a moment, he just sits, trying to figure out a way to compromise. Elway can’t just talk to Kyle; that won’t get him anywhere. Besides, if they move him to psych… Elway would really benefit if he built up some sort of connection with Kenny. “How about,” Kyle begins, pursing his lips as he fine-tunes the details of what he’s about to suggest, “How about I bring Dr. McCormick in here— no clipboard, no pen, no pencil, just you and him? He likes sports, you can talk about football and tell him about your, uh, steroids quarterback helmet thing.”

That gets Elway to laugh. There’s still a dampness in his eyes, but there’s a lighter note to it, like the gentler topic is easing him into a bit more of a relaxed state. More than likely, that’s the case. Elway says, “You’re really not a sports person, are you?”

“Yeah,” Kyle says. “I’m really not.”

“So, you never played sports when you were a kid?” Elway asks. Kyle hums.

“I played basketball, but I didn’t have the height to keep playing past middle school,” he says. “I remember once, I went in to try out for the team, and the coach told me, ‘Jews can’t play basketball’… very heartbreaking for a kid.”

“Dude, that is fucked,” Elway says. Kyle laughs.

“Yeah, it was pretty fucked,” Kyle says. He pushes up a little straighter and pulls his phone out of his pocket. “Would you like me to call Dr. McCormick down here? I’m sure he’d like to talk to you.”

Elway, once more, is quiet. He fidgets with the oxygen mask, appearing uncertain about whether he wants to put it on or keep it off. He eventually lifts it to his face and takes a few breaths. Kyle waits for him to feel comfortable. Elway pulls the mask away again. “To talk about sports, right?” he asks. Kyle nods.

“To talk about sports,” he says. “Unless you want to talk about something else.”

“No,” Elway replies. “No, sports… sports is good.”

Kyle nods. He navigates to Kenny’s contact on his phone, which really isn’t difficult since it’s at the very top of the list. He taps it and brings the phone up to his ear, listening to the tone, waiting for his husband to pick up. He shifts back in his chair when the familiar clicking of Kenny picking up sounds.

“ _What’s cookin’, good lookin’?_ ”

“Hello, Dr. McCormick,” Kyle says, completely ignoring the way Kenny answered the phone. “Remember Elway?”

“ _Uh… John Elway? Like, Broncos dude? Yeah, I remember him, retired from the—_ ”

“No, not John Elway, the patient Elway,” Kyle says. He hears Elway snicker. “The boy you visited earlier?”

“ _Oh, yeah, I remember him… what’s going on? Did something happen?_ ”

“No, everything is fine, we were just wondering if you could come down and talk with him? I let him know you were a sports fan, and he’d like to chat if you’re available.”

“ _Wait, you convinced him to talk to someone other than you?_ ”

“Sports, Ken.” Oh. Shit. Nickname. Kyle ignores the less-than-professional slip and says, “Yes, just a normal talk, like friends.”

“ _Oh… oh, okay, yeah, I’ll— I have a session in five minutes, but after that I’ll have time… how does an hour from now sound?_ ”

“An hour from now?” Kyle says, looking at Elway with question. Elway gives a little nod; he’s brought the oxygen mask back up to his face once more. Kyle nods in response, then remembers Kenny can’t see him. “An hour from now sounds perfect, we’ll see you then.”

“ _Alright, great, I’ll see y’all then._ ”

“Alright, thank you,” Kyle says. “Bye.”

“ _Buh-bye, honey_.”

Kyle hangs up with a smile on his face, then pockets his phone.

“So… Ken, huh?” Elway says through the mask. It’s muffled, but Kyle still hears him loud and clear. Kyle closes his eyes, slightly embarrassed. He’s usually able to keep himself in-check— then again, he usually doesn’t call Kenny during work hours. “Is that his name? Ken McCormick?”

“Kenneth McCormick,” Kyle says. “Ken is a nickname.”

“Oh,” Elway says. “So you guys are friends, then? You’re close enough for… for nicknames, I mean.”

“He’s my husband,” Kyle says, figuring telling the kid that much wouldn’t hurt. Elway nods.

“Oh, okay,” Elway says. “I guess that would explain why— why he called you ‘honey’… and ‘good-lookin’.”

“You heard that?”

“Your volume was up pretty loud,” says Elway, “So I basically heard all of it.”

“Oh, I see.” Kyle ignores the mild embarrassment creeping up on him in favor of adjusting his seat to be more comfortable. “So, John Elway, huh?”

“Yeah,” Elway says, that smile coming back. “John Elway.”

“Tell me some stuff about him,” Kyle says. Elway’s expression more than just brightens— he looks happy, in a shocked, almost disbelieving way.

“You actually want to hear?” Elway asks. Kyle nods.

“Well, you didn’t memorize his Wikipedia page for nothing, did you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments / feedback / constructive criticism; all is welcome!


	8. Confidentiality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kyle makes a risky decision and talks to Mr. Cartman.

True to his word, Kyle visits Mr. Cartman before the end of his shift. He knocks on the door frame before stepping in, alerting whoever is inside to his presence. Predictably, Mr. Cartman is still in bed, but this time he’s peering over the contents of a stapled collection of paperwork, a surprisingly neutral expression on his face. At the knock, however, Mr. Cartman glances up. He scowls at Kyle’s intrusion.

“Be quiet,” Mr. Cartman says in a hushed tone. He gestures to his wife, sleeping in the arm chair located near the window. Kyle takes the hint without any further need for prompting, and nods.

“Just thought I’d check in,” Kyle says, though he has a feeling that such a thing is obvious— Mr. Cartman certainly doesn’t look pleased in the slightest to see him. Momentarily, Kyle wonders if he overstepped a boundary. “But I can head out if you’d rather—”

“No, no,” Mr. Cartman says, flipping to the first page of the packet. “You came all this way, might as well talk… the fuck are you standing there for? Sit down, Jew.”

Although less than pleased with the way Mr. Cartman seems most comfortable addressing him, Kyle retrieves one of the wooden fold-up chairs behind the door and pulls it to Mr. Cartman’s bedside. As soon as he’s settled, Kyle is hit with the distinct feeling of being in the presence of a lawyer. He wonders on Mr. Cartman’s background.

“Ugh, this thing is perfect,” Mr. Cartman says, juxtaposing the definitive look of displeasure on his face. He tosses the papers down on the pull-up table, throwing his hands in the air in exasperation. “And I missed out on that fucking opportunity, thanks a lot, you covetous son of a bitch.”

“The only thing I was concerned about was your health,” Kyle says. Mr. Cartman scoffs.

“My health? MY health? Excuse me, you soulless ginger prick, but what about those kids in New York? What about _their_ health?” Mr. Cartman retrieves the packet just to throw it back down. “I swear to Jesus, I work endlessly day and night to make sure those kids get enough to eat at night and selfish God-fearing hockey schmucks like you come up and piss all over my deals… my deals! We were expanding, you know that? Expanding across the Midwest, we’ll be a name every household knows, we’ll be the shit those sniveling drug-addicts for parents fear at night.”

Mr. Cartman growls, then— a genuine growl, low in his throat. He leans back in the bed and closes his eyes, rubbing his forehead as if in thought, or as if he’d developed a migraine. Just when Kyle is about to ask if he’s alright, Mr. Cartman opens his eyes.

“For profit, of course,” Mr. Cartman says, as if trying to quickly correct himself. Kyle makes a noise, recalling Mr. Cartman’s gargantuan need for intact pride.

“Right,” Kyle says. “Of course.”

“Of course.” Mr. Cartman sits back up and retrieves the paper, pulling the table closer to himself and flicking through a different set of papers. He retrieves a pen and clicks it.

“Mr. Cartman,” Kyle says.

“Whaddaya want?” Mr. Cartman asks.

“I…” Kyle trails off, trying to figure out a good way to word it. Doctor-patient confidentiality makes such a thing difficult, though, and the last thing he wants to do is inadvertently share way too much about a patient with a person who isn’t on their care team. Kyle clears his throat. “Hypothetically, if I’m ever to come across an… at-risk patient—”

“Whoa, okay, buddy, I’m gonna stop you right there,” says Mr. Cartman. He glances around the room, pinpointing Heidi with a sharp, narrow expression, before returning to Kyle with a hushed voice, “I’m not an idiot, okay? I see those cogs turning in your head and honestly, I don’t trust a single pinprick of your skin cells any more than I trust a sample of bacterial meningitis, a’ight?”

Kyle nods.

“A’ight, good,” Mr. Cartman says. He glances around the room again— then gestures for Kyle to come closer. Kyle does. When Mr. Cartman speaks again, his voice is even more quiet than it had been before. “We both know whatever you’re about to tell me is a hundred percent not hypothetical, yeah? So I encourage you to be very careful with what you share with me… if this kid’s parents catch wind of you breaking confidentiality—”

“That’s the thing,” Kyle says. Mr. Cartman, although apparently miffed at the interruption, allows Kyle to continue. “We don’t know where his parents are, he won’t give us any information about himself— none. We only found out he has asthma when he had an attack earlier.”

Mr. Cartman looks like he doesn’t know how to respond to that. That’s fine; Kyle doesn’t expect him to.

“He’s very private and he is very obviously not okay,” Kyle says. He emphasizes the final part, hoping to get across to Mr. Cartman the fact that he was brought in on a suspected suicide attempt without actually saying it. “But speaking to you as a representative of your company rather than as a patient in this hospital, I wonder if there is any way you might be able to help… _only_ if you’re willing.”

Mr. Cartman, for a while, is simply silent. Kyle begins to get nervous, expecting the worst— expecting to be reported for breaking confidentiality, maybe, with this man’s earlier warning— but he doesn’t get the worst. Mr. Cartman breathes a small sigh and says, “This is tricky, Jew, my company relies on kids stepping forward for themselves, you understand? We have psychologists and doctors on hand in our locations in New York, which means we have the same restrictions any hospital might, you see? The only difference is we specialize in this stuff, and we allocate all resources in one basket…

“If this kid doesn’t come forward on his own,” Mr. Cartman continues, frowning, “There’s really not much I can do to help.”

Kyle can’t help but feel a bit disappointed. He didn’t expect much— he certainly didn’t expect any sort of magic cure for Elway— but he was sure this might be the kid’s best shot at figuring things out. He feels wary about allowing Elway to the psych ward without a solid connection; his reactions to certain stimuli would likely prove to be a severe downfall if he were to freak out again. The last thing Kyle wants is to have Elway be stressed out in such an environment for long enough that he loses all hope of ever figuring things out. Kyle sighs. “I understand,” he says. “I just wish there was more I could do.”

“I know,” Mr. Cartman says. “This type of thing is difficult, I know that, take it from a guy who’s been subjected in this type of system since sixteen— you need a thick skin to work with these kids. The worst isn’t even when they come in on a suicide attempt, the worst is when you visit schools and see the kids in their classrooms, and you pinpoint that boy alone in the back with the jacket on in late May, and the popular girl with the scrapes on her knuckles— and you make eye contact, and you try, but you know they won’t ever ask for help.”

The imagery hurts Kyle to picture. All he can do is nod, taking in the information with silent hope that Elway is going to be okay, whatever happens. Kyle turns his gaze down for a moment in thought. When Mr. Cartman shifts, he looks back up.

“I’ll tell you what,” Mr. Cartman says, tapping the end of his pen against the corner of the table. “You let that kid know he isn’t alone, okay? You let that kid know of his options— the psych ward, if he ain’t in there already, the police if there’s abuse, the hotlines if he’s trying to get the hell out— you let him know all that, and you also let him know there’s a man here for three days who has a background in helping kids like him, with whatever he’s dealing with. You let him know.”

“And if he can’t make that decision in three days?” Kyle asks.

“If he doesn’t make the decision in three days… aw, goddammit,” Mr. Cartman sighs. He grabs a pen from the pull-up table, grabs Kyle’s hand, and before Kyle can protest or suggest writing it on the notepad he carries around instead, Mr. Cartman writes a number into Kyle’s palm. “If he makes the decision after _four_ days and I’m back in New York, you give him this number— _my_ number— and I can hook him up with Colorado sources— hell, I will fly right back here if I gotta to make sure he gets the shit he needs.”

Kyle takes his hand back and stares at the number. This isn’t going to look good if Kenny sees it, so he’ll have to make sure he writes it down and washes it off before he heads home for the night. He looks up again. “Thank you, Mr. Cartman.”

“Aw, shut up, Jew,” Mr. Cartman says. He clicks the pen a couple more times before jotting something down on that new packet of papers. It doesn’t seem related to the situation, so Kyle doesn’t try to pry. Kyle stands up and folds the chair. On his way out, he hangs the chair. Before he can go, Mr. Cartman says, “Aye! Wait a sec!”

Kyle stops and turns around. Mr. Cartman has a firm expression on his face— stubborn, Kyle would say.

“You— uh…” Mr. Cartman stumbles, choking audibly on his words as he struggles to find something to say— something that won’t leave him sounding, in his own previous words, “like a pussy”… but that’s just speculation, on Kyle’s part. Mr. Cartman clears his throat. “You’re not bad, Jew, I’ve met a lotta you greedy bastards, and you’re not totally gross.”

Kyle blinks. “Um… thanks,” he says. He’s about to leave when he recognizes a question he has for Mr. Cartman. He turns back around. “How did you know I was Jewish?”

Mr. Cartman, with a smug look on his face, says, “I have a phenomenal Jay-dar.”

“ _Jay-dar_?” Kyle asks.

“Well, yeah,” Mr. Cartman replies, flipping through the document. “Jew-dar just doesn’t have the same ring to it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments / feedback / constructive criticism; all is welcome!


End file.
